The Billionaire Bad Boys Club (8 page)

The journey Rebecca had devised mixed comfort and surprise. Naturally, preparation didn’t occur without hiccups. Adjustments invariably had to be made en route. In the end, however, when the minute hand on the wall clock clicked to 1:29, she felt as confident as she was capable of.

She smoothed the front of her chef’s whites, polished a faint smudge from the first plate’s cover, and turned to face the door. Dominic had set up the little table at which her sole guest would eat. Rebecca believed in working clean. Although later dishes were still in process, very little chaos remained.

At precisely 1:30 and ten seconds, Trey Hayworth entered the kitchen.

He and his business partner Zane Alexander were among Boston’s most glamorous bachelors. In addition to making their mark in commerce, they supported numerous charities. Rebecca had seen shots of Hayworth in his tuxedo climbing out of limos too many times to count. She knew the young CFO was hot stuff.

She hadn’t known meeting him in person would stop her heart.

He was tall and tan and shaped from shoulder to hip like a pro athlete. His black hair was long enough to tie back and as smooth and shiny as if he’d just brushed it. The cuffs of his beautifully fitted Oxford shirt were rolled up to his elbows. An expensive watch gleamed on one wrist, but his soft suede shoes were as scuffed as if he’d kicked around in them for years. The overall effect was one of effortless stylishness, suggesting weekends in the Hamptons or maybe Ralph Lauren ads. He literally looked polished.

Maybe he buffs himself with money
, she joked, trying to recover her humor. From what she'd heard, the bad boys had enough of it.

Her cynicism shredded the moment his gaze met hers.

Clear and bright, his surprisingly hot green eyes were the color of bottles deposited on a sunny shore. Glints of amber increased their intensity, as did their lush frame of dark lashes. His thick eyebrows were crazy-sexy—brooding, manly—unavoidably sinking their hooks into her where she was most girly. His gaze seemed to penetrate her soul . . . evidently as preparation for wetting her panties.

“
Hel
lo,” he said with a smile that hinted at unfairly deep dimples.

Squirming already, Rebecca experienced the oddest shiver of deja vu.

“I’m Rebecca Eilert,” she said, aware that her voice wasn’t quite steady. Annoyed with herself, she offered him a hand that damn well was. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to show you what I can do.”

The panty-wetter took her hand in both of his, holding rather than shaking it. Again, Rebecca quivered with arousal—an inconvenience she could have done without. Hayworth’s palm was unexpectedly callused, possibly from rowing. Her college-age little brothers were on a crew and had similar rough spots. For a second, Hayworth seemed to be waiting for a response from her. Whatever it was, Rebecca didn’t know how to supply it.

“Would you like to begin?” she asked politely.

His mouth was well-shaped but not full. At her question, it slanted to one side—as if he were enjoying a private and slightly rueful joke.

“I’d be honored,” he concurred.

Dominic took his cue with a smoothness that would have done his father proud, pulling out the single chair for Hayworth. Hayworth took it, then let the young man spread his napkin and pour his water. That done, he looked expectantly at her.

Rattled but not—she promised herself—shaken, she set the first plate in front of him.

Hayworth’s
ah
of pleasure as she removed the lid was exactly what she’d hoped for.

Two fluffy golden potato blinis sat on a clean white plate, one picture-perfect little pancake tipped rakishly atop the other. This base was surmounted by a glistening scoop of tomato confit, which she’d seasoned lightly with roe of cod. Rebecca explained the dish’s contents, stepped back, and allowed him to dig in.

Hayworth did so, then swallowed his mouthful. “Oh my God,” he moaned gratifyingly, spooning into the dish again. “That is amazing.”

His appreciation was just beginning. He adored her creamy Maine lobster bisque, and pronounced her lamb chops with cassoulet wicked. Her palate-cleansing cucumber fraiche was praised, and her squab with foie gras and figs. By the time she was ready to serve dessert, her newly anointed sous-chef was grinning from ear to ear. Dominic knew he’d helped her prepare a hit.

Rebecca gave thanks the teenager’s heels remained on the floor.

For the final ‘taste’ she’d made upside-down apple tart with dollops of homemade cinnamon ice cream. This was a signature dish for her. Served in a small ramekin, the dessert mingled sweet and spicy, playing off the textures of creamy and toothsome. The tart and tender apples complemented the crispy puff pastry as if God had invented them for this pairing. Buckwheat pancakes with apple syrup it was not. All the same, for her, the tastes and scents brought back that first success. Unbeknownst to her guests, each time she served it, she shared her heart with them.

Hayworth scraped the ramekin with his spoon, then sat back in his chair and sighed. Though the amounts she’d served were too modest to have stuffed a big man like him, he wove both hands together over his flat stomach. His eyes were shining, his smile as satisfied as any guest she’d seen.

“That was killer,” he declared.

His tone was husky, causing her to speculate how he'd sound in bed. Mesmerized, she noticed a small Celtic knot tattooed on his neck. She’d seen these sometimes on Harvard students—book boys trying to act badass. Hayworth wore his differently, his toughness maybe not put on. The possibility added a whiff of mystery to his buffed stylishness, reminding her people got inked for other reasons than showing off.

Maybe Trey Hayworth was more than a spoiled tycoon.

“So Rebecca gets the job?” Dominic broke in, the sixteen-year-old no longer able to restrain himself. “You’ll hire her to be in charge of your restaurant?”

Dominic was too excited to notice the repressive look she shot him. Thankfully, Hayworth was amused. “I believe your chef and I need to discuss that privately.”

“Shoo,” Rebecca added, giving the boy a gentle shove toward the door.

“She’s awesome,” Dominic called over his shoulder. “She only yells for really bad screw ups. All the line cooks love her.”

He was still trying to cheerlead as the door swung shut behind him.

“High praise,” Hayworth murmured, rubbing his lower lip.

“I can do this,” Rebecca said, because he seemed undecided. “I’ve done everything in restaurants, from scrubbing toilets to expediting to stocking up on wines. I know the profit margin on every plate and what it doesn’t pay to be stingy on. I’ve hired and fired and trained servers to make sure every guest walks out the door as happy as possible. I’m more than a chef, Mr. Hayworth. I’m the entire package. You’d be lucky to have me.”

“That I have no doubt of,” he said with a wry mouth twist.

He could have been suggesting a double meaning. Before she could color up, he sobered. “You’re my top candidate, Rebecca, but I have to consider this. You’ve never run a place this big before.”

Rebecca clenched her jaw. Was he going to call Titcomb? Would Wilde’s new owner trash her for the huffy way she left? Calling his handpicked chef a pompous A-hole might not have been her most brilliant career move.

“I can do it,” she repeated a smidgen more softly. “I’ve studied what TBBC is about. You want a showstopper
and
a place folks can be comfortable eating in. You want the food critics slavering for a chance to slam you . . . and then to go home beaming. That’s what I
do
, Mr. Hayworth. You won’t find anyone better suited to creating a restaurant you and your partner will be proud of.”

Hayworth rose, which she interpreted to mean the time for arguing was over. She was five foot nothing, and he towered over her. He also smelled good, like soap and sweat and some faint cologne too expensive for her to know its name. She steeled herself against its appeal. As if he felt sorry for her, he dropped one warm hand to her shoulder.

Despite the kindness of the gesture, the amount of testosterone he exuded was distracting. He rocked his sexy beard shadow like nobody’s business.

“You’re my best candidate,” he said, giving her incredibly tensed-up muscle a light squeeze. “I promise I’m taking your application seriously.”

She needed this job, not only for her pride and to rescue her crew from Wilde’s, but to continue paying Charlie and Pete’s tuition. The twins covered books and rent with work-study, but Harvard was expensive. She’d been as proud as a peacock when they got in—as if their braininess proved she’d been a good caretaker. She wasn’t sure she could bear for them to transfer somewhere cheaper.

She truly couldn’t bear it if somewhere cheaper was far away. Her little brothers were her family twice over. She already hated going home to an empty house.

She couldn’t say that of course. Trey Hayworth was a big mogul. He wouldn’t care why she needed him to hire her.

“Thank you,” she said, inclining her head stiffly. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

~

Trey left Rebecca in the kitchen to gather her equipment. As he rode the executive elevator to the top floor, he was aware he’d treated her shabbily. That she could handle his latest project he’d established in five minutes. The woman radiated motivation, not to mention competence. The reasons he hadn’t dropped to his knees to beg her to take the job had nothing to do with her.

He thought he’d prepared himself for today. Naturally, he knew who she was. He’d recognized her name the instant her resume crossed his desk. Some might argue he should have forgotten it after all these years. Who had she been except a waitress with a nice pair and a pretty smile? There had to be thousands like her in any big city. That didn't seem to matter. The night they’d met, the night she’d imprinted herself on his memories, was a life changing one for him.

That was the night Zane admitted he wanted them to stay together.

Trey had never regretted accepting Zane’s offer—business or otherwise. Zane might not have said the words, but Trey knew he loved him. Pursuing a girl like Rebecca would have road-blocked all the good things that came after. She wasn’t a woman he could sleep with and then let go. Trey didn’t know if it was genetics or hormones or some weird subconscious awareness. He just knew her eyes had warned him; the way his chest had tightened at her nearness. She was his thunderbolt, possibly the only woman he could fall for as hard as Zane.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed into his big office.

Zane’s office was next to his. Most days, if he heard Trey come in, he’d say
hello
with a friendly drumroll on their shared wall. Today he couldn’t. He was on his way to Hawaii, to visit a resort they were considering bundling into TBBC’s collection. His partner being so far away didn’t lighten Trey’s mood at all.

Zane tried not to be possessive. He liked their arrangement. At least once a month he indulged his alternate erotic interest with a female. His revolving door for dates amused Trey, but it served a purpose. Rotating women as he did, Zane avoided encouraging any particular one to believe she'd stick around. Though Trey stepped out less frequently, his methods were similar. Hardly anyone got a repeat, and nobody slept over. Other men were off limits entirely. Trey understood his partner needed to come first with him. Sharing Trey with another love of a lifetime would be a deal breaker.

He dropped into his desk chair, swiveling toward the long expanse of windows to stare at the city. August’s sunshine shimmered in sparks and sheets off the old and new buildings. He could see the waterfront from this direction, the wharves and the bright harbor. Boston was never all one thing or another: neither all modern nor historic, neither completely land nor sea . . . kind of like him, when it came down to it.

He remembered the day, two weeks after his and Zane’s fateful dinner, when he’d given in to temptation and returned alone to Wilde’s. He’d purposefully gone during lunch, when Rebecca had said she worked in the kitchen and not out front. He’d emerged with her last name and a pounding long-term hard-on. Simply coming as close to her as that had sent a storm through his libido.

The reaction was enough to shock him to sanity. He hadn’t tried to contact her. He’d pushed the thought of her behind him, telling himself his crazy ideas about her had to be in his head. Love at first sight was silly. What he felt for Rebecca Eilert wasn’t any more than a crush.

Eventually he’d stopped dreaming about her sad gray eyes. Eventually he no longer wondered if anyone but him had noticed how profoundly alone she was.

Being more romantic than Zane didn’t make him an idiot.

Or maybe it did, because when he saw her application for the executive chef’s position, he hadn’t torn it up. The letter she’d sent along had been literate, humorously thorough, and inadvertently neurotic. The things she didn’t realize she was saying charmed him as no female had for years. He had his assistant schedule her to cook before he could stop himself.

He’d changed his clothes twice this morning, taking extra care to close-trim the stubble most women seemed to love. As they rode in the limo—Zane to the airport and he to work—Zane had accused him of having a hot lunch date. He’d been teasing, but Trey had blushed like a teenager. He hadn’t told Zane he was interviewing chefs, though they both had a stake in the future Bad Boys Lounge. Truthfully, he couldn’t tell him. Rebecca was the only applicant he’d seen.

Trey was acting like a cheating husband. He needed to cut it out. He’d almost convinced himself he would when he stepped into that kitchen.

His heart had jumped in his chest like it had at Wilde’s.
It’s her
, sang his imagination.
She’s in the same room with me
. His skin had tingled at her presence, his every cell humming with aliveness.

Her littleness was a mule kick to his breadbox.

She had the same short blonde haircut, like she’d settled on a style and couldn’t be bothered to change it. Her eyes were still huge, still haunted by shadows and mulishness. She was wirier than he remembered, as if she didn’t—or maybe couldn’t—leave a restaurant’s heavy lifting to underlings. The tension in her handshake astonished him. She was like a racehorse who never, ever allowed herself to relax. He shouldn’t have found that sexy. He shouldn’t have wanted to strip her naked and massage her all over.